


Midwinter's Night

by MrsMoriarty



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aragorn being helpless, Budding Romance, Dancing, First Kiss, M/M, Matchmaking, Midwinter, Romance, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:21:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27918151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsMoriarty/pseuds/MrsMoriarty
Summary: It is Yuletide in Minas Tirith and the court is celebrating. But among all celebration Aragorn seems rather distracted. Could it be due to his handsome young steward?
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	Midwinter's Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [werthersechter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/werthersechter/gifts).



> English is not my first language, so my choice of words is probably odd and my sentences too long. Please excuse and let me know about any ideas of improvement.
> 
> Sorry for writing the ladies out of the story, I really like them as characters and think them to be a great match to their respective counterparts, but when it comes to Aragorn and Faramir, they just have enought problems on their own getting together, so well...

„…this evening, my lord?“

The words don’t reach his ear easily over the noise of the feast below them. Yuletide has been extraordinarily cold this year, or so he has been told. Aragorn can not really tell. Deep down in his bones he remembers much icier nights, spent in damp ditches covered only by half frozen shrubbery. But that was ages ago, of course, and far up north, where the hottest summer days only match a semi-decent Lotesse afternoon from Gondor. And judging from the layers and layers of thick wool and fur that the ladies of the court have been recently displaying, it seems to be true that Minas Tirith is indeed choking on this winter’s chilly grip.

If not for anything else, at least for that he is glad that they have reached the peak of long nights and short days of heavy snowfall now. In a few weeks time it will be easier to notice but from now on Anor will gain strength with any passing day. Maybe it’s this thought that has lifted the citiy’s spirit tonight. For as cold and dark as the skies outside lie, the fires and candles seem to shine even brighter. The great hall shimmers in the warm glow of a thousand golden flames, the white walls reflecting each of them with a soft shine. According to a tradition Aragorn has not once heard of in all his years as a Gondorian soldier, the boys and maidens of the inner city have spent the last days hunting for each tiny twig of green left in the snow-covered lands surrounding Minas Tirith and hung them on the ceiling and the subtle scent of fresh cut holly lingers above their heads, even though the smell of roasted meat, of stew and ale seems overwhelming at first. Just now a handful of kitchen boys enters to bring yet another suckling pig and despite being the fifth serving its appearance spark a new round of applause from the party.

And a feast it is quite indeed. Wine and food are abundant and delicious, the musicians are playing loud and lively and for quite some time the tables on the floor below the king’s banquet have been pushed aside to make place for the younger lords and ladies, lining up in neverending rows and circles tot he accompanying music.

„I beg your pardon?“ It takes a moment for Aragorn to break free from his musings and turn his attentions towards the man besides him.

Imrahil smiles and a certain fatherly warmth flashes over his face. Despite the fact that he himself is quite a few years his junior the Prince of Dol Amroth has become undeterred in his conviction that Aragorn is part of the younger generation and developed a rather paternal attitude towards his liege, who cannot help himself but feel oddly charmed at the sentiment.

„I asked my lord if he is happy with his Yuletide?“, the Prince repeats and Aragorn stops to think for a moment.

In the months that have passed since his coronation he has hosted more than one banquet. As is expected of a high king. And he cannot actually say that he disliked any of them, really not. But just once or twice Aragorn has to admit he felt a certain instinct to…retreat. Maybe that’s not the right word. Even in Imladris, despite the whole wonder of elven hospitality, he has always deep down in his heart preferred the beauty of solitude to the hilarity of festivities like these.

Tonight is different, however. He cannot quite place his finger on to why, but for the first time, things seem to fit. For the first time Aragorn feels like he truly belongs. He lets his eyes wander over his subjects and, more importantly, his friends and smiles. Elladan and Elrohir are still here. So are Gimli and Legolas. Gandalf has been off on some mysterious quest, but he feels safe in assuming that he won’t be gone long. Eomer’s and Eowyn’s absence he feels more permament, but they have country to rebuild on their own and sooner or later come spring diplomatic visits will be required, won’t they?

And of course there are new friend’s among the many nobles of Minas Tirith. The House of Dol Amroth has proven to be faithful to fault. Amdiron from the House of Elenion has become an almost permanent guest at his court. Right now he is dancing with Gaileth from the House of Serni, a most promising match. Maybe he will attend a wedding next year. They stare at each other with the dimwitted smile of the freshly fallen and Aragorn cannot hide a grin while he watches them try to maintain eye-contact while swapping partners. Himiriel is now paired with…

Aragorn clears his throat. He’s been drifting off again.

„Why wouldn’t I?“ He has been told before that his nordic understatement is rather uncommon here, but Imrahil knows him well enough by now to only comment on it with a bemused laugh.  
„Well, my lord, no reason, really. It just seems you are rather engaged with the dance while not participating yourself.“

As if struck by lightning, Aragorn averts his gaze from the man his eyes have been following the whole evening. If Imrahil notices he does not comment. „Do they bother you, my lord? Do not be offended by their eagerness. They are young and have had not a lot of reasons to dance in recent years.“

This time Aragorn manages to break free from the mesmerizing view before him long enough to actually look in his counterpart’s eyes and furrows his brows. „Whyever would I mind them? Is that the impression I’m giving off?“

While Aragorn reaches for his goblet, Imrahil shrugs. „Maybe. Who knows if our ways are delicate enough for one raised among elves?“

A cough ist he answer. Aragon, who has taken a good sip from his cup, chokes on the rich spiced wine, trying to stiffle a laughter and takes a few moments to regain his posture. „Delicate? Pray tell me, have you ever been to an elvish party?“

The older man shakes his head. „I cannot pride myself in such experience.“

„Be glad then“, replies his king, „for let me assure you it is the safest way to make a fool of yourself.“

Imrahil grins and seems to have questions on his lips, but then decides to leave the subject for another time. „Why don’t you join them then? I’m sure there are a lot of young noblewomen who would be delighted to dance with their king.“

Aragorn cannot bring himself to look at Imrahil at this remark. Of course he knows at least two hands full of ladies who seem rather hopeful that one day he could choose one of them as his queen, especially since it has become obvious that Lady Arwen will not recover from her illness and thus be in dire need of leaving for the Undying Lands. He takes another sip of wine and Imrahil seems to guess his thoughts.

„There is no use in dwelling in the past too much, lad!“ Apparently he has had a bit too much wine himself, but Aragorn can’t bring himself to mind, given the fact that it means the Prince will probably not notice his blush. Dwelling in the past. If only that were his problem!

He allows his eyes to flicker over the crowd for a brief moment, in hope of having lost sight of him in the few moments he has been distracted. But Aragorn is out of luck. Amongst the others Faramir still shines brightest, his copper hair burning like amber in white snow, his laughter bright and innocent and all of him gracious like the elves the young man admires so much. He is wearing dark blue tonight, in stark contrast to his light features, a design of simple elegance, with silver fur-lining around the wrists being the only decorum. The velvet clings delicately to his slim figure and makes promise of what might lie beneath. Aragorn’s heart beats faster, treacherous body of his. He wets his lips, trying to find a non-comittal answer, but Imrahil is faster.

„Or is there some other beauty cathing your eye?“, he asks in conspirational tone and winks at him. For a moment it seems to Aragorn that time has frozen like the icicles crowning the Tower of Ecthelion. What has he done to give himself away? Is he that easily seen through? And who else knows of his secret? He can feel his heart pounding in his ears, a cold hand gripping his heart, his mouth is dry.

A loud clatter brings his mind back into the present. Apparently in his shock he has let got of his goblet. With a loud clank the golden cup hits the floor and spills wine over the stone tiles. Only now does Aragorn realize he has risen to his feet. People will be staring at him now he supposes but he doesn’t find it in him to look away from Imrahil, who now gets up in turn.

Aragorn must look horrified, he knows that. Probably he should find an excuse for his behaviour better sooner than later. He makes to turn to the maiden, who comes to gather the fallen cup, but before he can bring his dizzy mind to form a coherent sentence, Imrahil speaks.

In fact he laughs first, loud and heartily, before he declares: „Now, now, my lord, do not take insult in my proposition. Surely, the pavane can’t be that different to what you learnt at Rivendell as a boy. And I’m sure the lords and ladies of the court are more than willing to help you out.“

Before Aragorn can answer, Imrahil has led him down the steps to the dancefloor with suprising swiftness, given the time of the evening, and introduced him to the dancers.  
Confused but in lack of a better option Aragorn allows himself to be led and tries to play along, while wishing for any excuse to leave the room.

„I’m not sure that is a good idea, Prince. I would not want to spoil a perfectly good dance.“  
But by now the nobles around have already joined Imrahil in his endeavour and welcome him warmly.

„Nonsense, my king, how could you spoil a feast that’s yours?“ Imrahil insists while looking around and Aragorn manages a pained smile. He almost wishes for the minstrels to start playing again, but just before they do, another man approaches and Aragorn does not need to turn around to recognize the soft tone.

„My uncle is of course right, my lord“, Faramir joins the conversation. „In fact, we have been waiting for you to join us, haven’t we?“ There is a certain amusement in the Steward’s voice, which Aragorn cannot really understand, but against better knowledge he finds himself overjoyed by Faramir’s honest happiness. „And if my lord finds himself in need of a dance instructor, I’m more than willing to help.“

With this he extends his arm and offers it to his king, who feels a surge of desperate, cold panic rise in his chest. How badly he has tried to avoid such closeness over the past few weeks, ever since he has become aware of this dark longing in his soul. How badly he has tried to keep Faramir away from his wanting body, and all in vain now. When he takes his hand, it’s hot and for a moment Aragorn thinks he will burn himself. But then he manages to bow a little and mutter a dignified „Thank you ever so much, lord steward!“ and suddenly everthing seems to be back on track again.

Faramir leads him to the middle of the dance floor and fetches a suitable young noblewoman out of nowhere who seems equally smitten and composed coming to terms with the fact that she has been chosen to dance with the high king. Aragorn is eternally grateful for her professionalim and makes a mental note to take this into consideration when choosing a wife. He even manages to make a few witty and almost charming remaks, before Faramir gives the sign for the music to continue.

He would not have deemed it possible, but in the end, Aragorn is grateful for the distraction. At least part of his mind is occupied with moving his hands and feet in tact and that gives him at least a little peace for now. He does know how to dance, everything else is a terrible lie, and even though he is not familiar with this exact sort of pavane he manages to fit in well enough.

Maybe it’s best to just ignore the conversation that has happened. Imrahil is drunk, as is he. Maybe an ill-appointed joke of an old soldier. Maybe nothing but a quirk. Probably forgotten in the morning. Hopefully…

The part changes and so do the dancers. The squares turn clockwise, just a half, and partners change for a round, a promenade, another turn, a cadence to lift the lady in a small jump and everyone finds themselves with a new partner for the next part.

Faramir smiles at him. Aragorn almost misses a beat, but before he can embarass himself more than he has done so far, he has gained composure again and raises his hand to meet Faramir’s palm, while they circle each other. In his peripherie he can see that in fact all mixed couples have disbanded and men are dancing with men now as women with women. That is indeed a kind of dance Aragorn has not seen among elves. But no one seems offended by it, so he does his best to hide his surprise.

The music plays on, strong and sweet at the same time, perfectly fitting their strut. Faramir it turns out is a talented dancer. His movements are reduced, just enough to fit the dance, but never over the top, the epitome of elegance and beauty. They seem unbearably light and with all his heart Aragorn wishes he could attain the same easiness, while he feels an undefined coldness creep into his guts. He allows Faramir to lead the way and cannot tear his eyes away from him even for one second. 

Every candle in the room seems to burn brighter now, each note to sound more melodic and with each round they turn, Aragorn allows himself to let a bit of the coldness inside melt. There is no use now in not enjoying what has been thrown at him and even if he does not deserve it, he enjoys it nonetheless.

When they finally dance the promenade again, Aragorn does not know how he is supposed to hide his disappointment at the imminent change of partners.

Carefully he places his hands on Faramir’s hips and lifts him for the last cadence, determined to cherish every single moment and feels an incredible joy at the trust that’s been placed in him, when Faramir sets his foot on the floor again and swiftly falls into a courtous bow. The music stops and applause arises. Aragorn hastes to reciprocate the gesture. The other couples do alike and shuffle around to reposition for the next dance.

Like in trance Aragorn joins in. He cannot possibly leave without offending anyone and so he dances on, but he can’t quite concentrate and misses a few steps, so at least people should believe now his incompetence has kept him from dancing earlier. He is lucky, though. No dance passes, where he does not share at least a part or two with his loyal steward. Was this on purpose? Was Faramir trying to help out his lord? Or did he seek his company for other reasons?

No! He should not let his mind venture these forbidden parts. No good will come from wishful thinking. Better to focus on what’s at hand. And that is the most handsome and gifted man he has had the fortune to meet in his not so short life. They dance together again and with each round they attune better to one another. By the third time, Aragorn feels like they have done this for an eternity.  
And if he is disappointed at first at each ending song, he soon looks forward to each beginning one. Heat rises in his cheeks, from the whine and the fires and the dance and…But he doesn’t mind, soon he laughs and jokes with the others, laughs and doesn’t think about tomorrow.

It must be after their sixth or seventh dance, when it happens. While they try to navigate the crowd, Faramir is pushed closer to him and Aragorn barely catches his fall. For a moment he holds the other man close and tries to catch his breath. Red hair brushes over his cheek. Aragorn can smell a beguling hint of musk and cedar and grips the blue velvet tighter than ever before.

„How wonderful of you my lord, to join us!“, Faramir whispers and suddenly Aragorn is not sure, if their sudden closeness was indeed a coincidence. „I almost feared you had lost interest, despite my entertaining you the whole evening.“

Aragorn does not move. The coldness now creeps down his spine. He tries to speak, but cannot find a single word. Then the music sets in again and he still doesn’t know what to say. A mocking expression has snuck in Faramir’s warm smile. A hand reaches for his and suddenly the spell is broken. Decisively Aragorn pulls back his hand and turns around.

„Forgive me, my lady!“, he brings out and gives the young woman next to him a warm smile. „But I find the heat of dance and wine have gotten to me. I just asked my Lord Steward here to accompany me outside and I am yet to find out, if there is treason to happen or not, so please excuse me for now and rest assured that it is both better for your liege and your feet that way.“

The laughter he earns in answer is open and honest and in such a relief as to not having offended the poor girl. Still, Aragorn fears it could be obvious to the attentive observer that he more flees than leaves the room while dragging Faramir with him. It is not hard to gather their cloaks, before they even reach the door, they are handed to them, but even those short moments seem like an eternity to Aragorn, whose only calms down once they step out into the bright white moonlight of the blue Narvinye night.

It is cold outside on the arcade. For the past two days it has been snowing and Minas Tirith lies covered under a thick white blanket, that seems to muffle every sound. Now the skies are covered in stars, however, and their breath freezes into tiny white clouds. For the first time tonight Aragorn feels like his head is getting clearer instead of more foggy. Once the door closes behind them Aragorn lets go of Faramir’s arm and walks over to the snow-covered balustrade where he clings to the stone as if to support himself. Below them he can see tiny dots of light sprinkeld across their city. All of Minas Tirith is celebrating tonight. He finds the thought oddly comforting.

Behind him he can hear Faramir shuffle. „What is it, my lord?“, he asks and it pains Aragorn to hear actual concern in the younger man’s voice. „Did you not enjoy the dance?“

Aragorn takes a deep breath. If only it was that easy. „Faramir“, he begins, and is surprised how broken his voice sounds. „If I have offended you tonight…“ He does not know how to elaborate. But if Faramir is only a tenth as perceptive as his uncle, he will know, what his king is implying. „Then I shall be deeply sorry and will do everythin in my power to weaken the insult.“

For a moment there is only silence. A gust of wind rises, whirling around the half-frozen snowflakes again. Then Faramir answers and sounds almost conversational suddenly. „Oh, it’s alright, my lord. I know you did not actually accuse me of treason. I know a joke, if I hear one, even if it’s just a bad excuse.“

Aragorn turns around. The playful insult reassures him a bit, but he is also confused. Is Faramir giving him an easy way out? But then, why would he say…

Faramir’s eye sparkle with wit in the starlight darkness. His lips curl as if he is one second from bursting into laughter and Aragorn understands.

„Are you making fun of your king, Lord Steward?“, he asks indignantly and makes Faramir laught out loud.

„Well, if my king insists on behaving like a lovestricken stable boy…“

Aragorn‘s heart skips a beat. „How can you say such…things?“, he asks and knows that he is not doing one bite to improve the impression of a lovestricken stableboy he is giving.

Again, Faramir laughs, but this time it is more sympathetic than mocking. „It is not exactly unheard of, my lord.“

But it is, Aragorn wants to object. Among elves at least. Then again, he has made a fool enough of himself tonight, so he swallows hard and takes a step towards the man in front of him.

„Is that so?“, he utters and takes heart.

Faramir does not flinch, when Aragorn cradles his hands in his own. „It’s true.“, he answers and now his voice sounds husky. „I hear the Steward is not so avert to the idea, so maybe you should be careful.“

Aragorn’s heart beats hard and loud, it must be heard even inside the hall. Aragorn moves his hands up to the pin at his throat and opens his cloak. With one swift motion he sweeps it of his shoulders and wraps the heavy fabric around Faramir before pulling him in closer.

„You are cold!“, Aragorn whispers, pressing the other man’s hands harder than ever before.

Indeed, he can sense a slight shiver taking over Faramir’s whole body now. „It is a terribly cold winter after all, sire“, he remarks with smile.

But when his lips touch Aragorn’s for the first time, hot and wet and oh so promising, the king is not sure he can feel even the slightest bit of cold.


End file.
